Chapter Three

It was evening here,
But upon earth the very noon of night.
—Dante, Purgatory (canto XV, l. 5)

All things considered, it was easy enough to find the agent. He was sitting on a stool, hunched over the bar, several well-drained mugs stacked up with almost obsessive precision at his right elbow. Gunmetal thought about clearing his throat, but in this crowd – which was already eying the Tripredacus messenger hungrily – it was ill-advised. Though he wore a badge of office, all allegiances were null and void within this establishment. (Rumor had it that even Megatron dared not sack it during the Great War.)

He took a step forward and was immediately surrounded by several hulking mechs, their bodies bare of any insignia. Neutrals or stripped of their rank. “What business have you here?” one rumbled, a thin line of lubricant oozing from his grill-plate.

Gunmetal steeled himself, chest out. “Business for Tripredacus.” Slag; the proclamation sounded tinny, weak.

“Take your business elsewhere,” Grillface grated, lubricant splattering over Gunmetal’s plating. “I don’t know how you got in here, but the outside stays out.”

There was a soft, almost gentle caw from the bar. “He’s looking for me, Smokeback. Let him through.”

Smokeback snarled, hunching over Gunmetal so that lubricant rolled freely from his grill and onto the messenger’s helm, rolled into his optics and down over his cheeks. With a final, decisive snort, the non-alliegence mech backed away and over to a smoky corner of the bar. “You have five minutes, no more,” the agent continued quietly. Gunmetal paused in wiping the drool away and hiked over to the bar. “What has Tripredacus to say?”

Gathering his wits, Gunmetal reported smartly, “Sir. Covert Agent Ravage has not checked in and has been declared missing in action. Tripredacus wishes you present yourself at the space station within the hour for briefing.”

The shoulders of the mech at the bar lifted with liquid precision, the inky light of the bar flashing off a purple Decepticon logo. Just as inky was the laugh that emanated from a sharp avian beak. “So. The Black Cat is dead – or as good as dead. Who could have predicted such a thing to happen? Not he, no, not Ravage.” He laughed again, taloned hands clenching the crystal mug till it shattered, the silver shards scattering everywhere, and turned to face the messenger. “And now Tripredacus wants me to fill his ill-begotten paw-prints?” If Gunmetal had ever seen ancient Egyptian sarcophagi, he would have likened the Decepticon’s head to a pharaoh’s funerary mask: that was how it sat upon his shoulders. Vulturine, Laserbeak’s head was still patterned in red, black and grey; his eyes were round, bright and touched with a sliver of madness. Two stubs of stylized wings jutted from his shoulder blades, twitching now and then.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hrph. A job is as good as any.” Laserbeak reached over and carefully balanced another mug of oil atop the other six, one that had surrupticiously appeared at his left elbow when the other had shattered. “Lead on, bootlicker.”

Bowing and scraping as only he knew how, Gunmetal backed away from the bar as Laserbeak stood up. Titanium talons scratched furrows in the much-abused floor as the old Decepticon, now an agent of the Predacon Alliance, followed the messenger of the Council out of the bar. And the door melted into the darkness.

Laserbeak knew his place. He’d spent too long under Megatron’s thumb, of Soundwave’s … of Ravage’s. Yes, poor, poor Ravage. The elite agent – lost. How droll. He also knew that he was invaluable, for the simple reason of being a Decepticon-cum-Predacon.

Tripredacus convened in a tight hall, each of the three governing bodies taking a seat upon red-iron thrones. Laserbeak stilled a laugh and stuffed it back into his crop: how would have Megatron reacted to see the proud, fierce Decepticons regulated to high Cybertronian space, not even allowed on the ground? All the planet would have felt his wrath, yes, it would have.

“Covert Agent Laserbeak stands before Tripredacus,” Gunmetal announced before scurrying away.

“Laserbeak,” Center pronounced.

“You have been told of your fellow agent’s demise,” followed Right smoothly. Laserbeak’s beak quirked in a smirk. “Is it official, then? Ravage is terminated?”

“Covert Agent Ravage has not returned; terminated or not, we ask that you take his place.” Laserbeak’s head swung to pin the speaker on the left with a beady gaze.

“And what is the mission?” he whispered.

Center leaned forward. “The Maximals have returned to Cybertron – the lost ones of the Axalon.”

“The ones we prevented from contacting Cybertron through the transwarp wave,” Laserbeak murmured, half to himself, as one who likes to hear his own voice does.

“Yes,” Right rumbled, a little perturbed at the old Decepticon’s arrogance. Such he expected from a Cat – but a Bird? Pride, not overconfidence. “The very same. Secret satillite images reported that they have captured the rogue – the one who took your leader’s name. He appears much changed. But that is no matter.”

Center picked up the tale: “The Maximals landed at Cybertropolis Spaceport. After that, we know nothing else.”

“Your objective is to ferret out the whereabouts of the rogue called Megatron and bring him to us,” the one on the right finished.

Laserbeak lifted his head slightly. “Functional or not?”

“Functional,” Center replied, leaning forward. “We wished him terminated, but word is spreading around this station that he is returned – that your Megatron is returned. This could be the very catalyst we need to regain power from the Maximals!”

Laserbeak frowned. His Megatron? Absurd! No mech on Cybertron could hold a torch to the great warlord. Fools, all of them, if they deemed it necessary to put a puppet up for racial pride. A puppet that happened to have a bomb in his tailpipe.

Center frowned, catching the slight dip of Laserbeak’s head. “Agent Laserbeak. You may go.” Yes, Laserbeak knew his place. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the audience hall.

“Do we trust him?” Left murmured.

“Never trust a Decepticon,” Center replied, leaning back. Of course, none of them trusted each other, either.

Illusion generously set out some mugs of Energon, plates of ion-sticks and a few organic foods before slipping out the door. The Maximals sat at an oval table in the center of what appeared to be a family dining area. Nothing of the set-up was remotely what they were used to, made even more apparent by the photographs that were propped up on a low silverware chest on the far end. Cheetor, still high off of meeting Mirage, wandered over and picked up one of the pictures.

“Cheetor …” Optimus warned gently, looking towards the high, bright ceiling for evidence of a security system.

“Awr, look, Big Bot! It’s Mirage! And in his Autobot form!” The Cat flicked the frame around to show everyone the image therein: the spy was captured from behind, at a three-quarter view angle. He was leaning against a boulder, hand lifted to the dusk-darkened sky, pointing to something high above the horizon. A human woman was perched on his shoulder, her head close to his, trying, it seemed, to follow his gesture. Cheetor flicked the photo around. “But who’s the girl?”

BlackArachnia picked up another frame, a mug of Energon in the other. Her optics flicked over the image and back over to the one Cheetor held. “My guess – it’s Solarflare.” She turned her picture around – this one was almost mirror-image, save it had a grey-white-and-black avian femme, her wings tucked close to her back, leaning up against the white-blue Ligier.

Rattrap peered close, too close – his brow ridge bumped up against the glass until BlackArachnia snatched it away. “Nyah … you think so? Could be our host is just a ladies’ man.”

“I feel it, vermin,” she snapped, and put the picture back before stalking over to the table and sitting there with her Energon. Silverbolt shot Rattrap a feral glare and sat beside his bondmate, lifting an ion-stick as a peace offering.

Optimus could not eat; he felt like pacing, but in a room of this size, it was impossible. Cheetor looked up from picture-gazing. “You don’t trust them, do you?”

Did he trust the Tower-dwellers? Doubt niggled at his cortex, but it was still too soon to commit himself to an opinion. Perhaps they shouldn’t have brought Megatron – perhaps he should have ordered them to dump their cargo into the nearest sun … but then, he would have had no way of actually confirming Megatron’s termination. Prime had killed Galvatron – why couldn’t he have killed Megatron? Optimus paused. Could he kill Megatron?

“Big Bot?”

Optimus jerked back to reality and forced a smile. “I trust them. I just don’t trust our situation.”

“Well, if y’ask me, we shoulda dumped old lizard-breath into the nearest black hole.” Rattrap waved a banana around for emphasis. Primal blinked; was he becoming that transparent? However, Rattrap hadn’t suddenly become a mind-reader. “Woulda saved us all this hoo-hah. Instead of hittin’ the bars, I’m sittin’ stale in this overpriced castle,” he continued to whine.

Optimus sighed and turned to look at the photographs. Delicately, he lifted one to stare at it: the heroes of the Ark, all lined up and smiling, waving and goofing off. And Optimus Prime standing in the middle, his masked face impossible to read, but the tilt of his head and the easy hands he rested on the shoulders of two mechs, one white-red and the other white-black, spoke volumes. Can I do it, Prime? he thought. Could I?

They had time enough.

Hopefully.

Two hours later, Illusion came by to guide them to where they would be spending the night. Or nights, she didn’t exactly elaborate. Optimus had to remain down on a lower floor, as though the ceilings were quite high, the walls were too narrow to allow his bulk and all the trappings that came with his new body. The others were quite eager to call it a night, but not Rattrap. As soon as the coast was clear, he transformed and pushed the door open, canvassing the area for evidence of movement. But Illusion was gone, and he was alone.

These old geezers sure know how to live, Rattrap thought with a touch of jealousy. He rose up on his hind legs, pausing to sniff the air. Optimus would have his tail in a blender if he found out that he was trolling the halls of their hosts unsupervised. But being the rodent he was, Rattrap had to have a look-see.

Slipping from his room was easy enough; there were no locks on their doors and no guards, not even security cameras that he could see. Either these Autobots were secure in their estate or they had technology that he’d never heard of, or seen. As he padded down the large, open hallways, Rattrap was struck with how … unCybertronian … everything was: plush rugs, curtains, murals of Earth animals or landscapes. Here and there was a hint of Cybertron as it had been before the Great War, as it was during the Second Golden Age. Nothing overtly extravagant, not like the foyer or the dining hall. Thus, he had to concede (begrudgingly) that these Autobots weren’t stuffy yuppies with more money than any two Transformers should ever have … no, they were a family.

Still.

He had to pry; it was in his nature, whether scanned from his beastform or inherent. Thus, the giant red-silver roborat trotted soundlessly up and down, poking his overlarge nose into various closets and rooms that were conveniently left open. Many were storage facilities or spare rooms for guests. Nothing of interest there. At the end of the hall was a curving staircase, glittering silver and gold, and an elevator. Rattrap chose the stairs, lifting his muzzle and making sure that the scent he tasted in the circulated air was old enough to be safe. Putting a paw on the first step, Rattrap listened closely for any subtle mechanic whine, letting him know if the stairs were in any way wired. Nothing.

Rattrap chuckled quietly to himself. “Old softies,” he muttered, grinning. And ascended the staircase with a jaunty, careful step. The moment he reached the top, his highly-tuned ears caught the vibrations from two muffled voices. Secrets to be expounded.

The metallic rat scuttled low, softly, gently, across the deep plush of the carpet, ear to the floor. He tracked the sound right to its source – a door embossed with strange black-iron birds, curving around the archway, the beak of one holding the tail of the other. With a mental giggle, Rattrap pulled a thin plug from his right ear and slipped it slowly under the door to the bedroom of Solarflare and Mirage. Sidling close to the wall, he shut his eyes and “saw” through the miniature scope:

The room was as large as he’d suspected a noble’s to be, but instead of a dual recharging bed, there was something different – a large canopied structure, wreathed in crimsons, silver and white. A bed – like they said humans on Earth slept in. Rattrap’s hoarder’s eye found jeweled neckbands, crystal chandeliers, tooled silver chairs … and Solarflare and Mirage standing together by an open window. The femme was leaning with her back against the spy, his arms around her as she rested her hands on the balcony. Rattrap increased the magnification and volume, listening … spying on the spy.

“War,” he heard the grey femme breathe, shudder.

“It’s a possibility,” Mirage replied as quietly. “Though, I’m disappointed that peace didn’t last as long as I would have hoped.” He sighed. “Nine million years of war, three hundred years of peace – doesn’t seem too fair to me.”

“No,” she agreed, pulling his arms tighter around her middle. “But, it doesn’t have to end up like that, does it? We have the catalyst under lock and key.”

Mirage snorted. “Not so simple, Alina.” Rattrap blinked. Alina?? Oh, well … “Our Maximal ‘descendants’ are too soft for my liking. Decepticon amnesty? They gave Prime a pat on the back, a ‘job well done’ and threw our hard work to the smelter. We should have destroyed them all when we had the chance, just as Prime destroyed Galvatron.”

“It’s like that no matter where you go,” Solarflare replied gently. “Destroying everyone only makes you as good as the enemy.”

Rattrap could see the subtle clenching of Mirage’s fingers on her waist. The spy rumbled low in his vocalizer, then sighed. “I suppose,” he conceded, though he didn’t seem all that convinced to the metallic rat. “But I still don’t trust what they’re going to do with this imposter.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Call everyone back. The Maximal Council of Elders won’t do anything to prevent a Third Great War.”

“Can we be sure of it?”

A low growl rumbled from Mirage’s vocalizer. “I’ve seen it, Alina!” One of his hands came out and pounded the wall in frustration. “This … groveling. It’s beneath me, beneath our station. They’re not concerned with the past. To them, it’s just something to lord over the Predacons, which I thought was asinine then, and I think it’s asinine now. All I want is to spend the rest of my days with you … with the peace we won. If I have to take up my rifle again, I will. All of us will have to.”

Solarflare murmured something unintelligible. “Use our obscurity to our advantage,” she said at last. “Could work.”

“It will,” the sleek Ligier asserted.

“I’ll send Spec and Lu out tomorrow with missives. I can coordinate everything from here.”

Rattrap watched judiciously as the spy bent his head and kissed the hollow of her throat, his hands flickering low on her hips. “I know you don’t approve, but I appreciate the effort,” he whispered.

She turned in his arms. “I fought just as hard as you, Raj, and I won’t let that go without a fight.”

“That’s my girl.”

Before Rattrap’s sneak-scope, the outline of the white-blue Ligier blurred until he vanished completely. Vanished, invisible.

Slag! Just as things were getting interesting.

Rattrap hunkered down, straining to hear something, when he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and hauled upright.

“Rattrap! I cannot believe that you would violate our honored hosts’ privacy!” Silverbolt lifted him higher and shook the metallic rat so that his head swayed sickeningly.

And then he was swept from Silverbolt’s grip and slammed against the far wall, the point of a loaded rifle flaring out from the middle of his chest, an onyx hand clenched about his throat. Mirage’s face ripped into being, the blue edge of his helm obscuring his optics.

“Sir!” Rattrap heard Silverbolt call out, but the spy would have none of it.

“We give you free reign and you figure that you will use that time to spy on me?” Mirage growled, hammering the muzzle of his slick rifle harder against the middle of Rattrap’s chest. The metallic rat gulped, eyes wide and flickering back and forth. He’d been caught – caught! “I would have thought you would have known better,” the noblemech whispered very low, “than to try your luck!”

Words froze in Rattrap’s throat. He’d never seen such deathly calm in a mechanism before. Perhaps he shouldn’t have tossed off those old stories about Mirage that the others had been bandying about at lunch. The slim, sleek exterior completely belayed the old Autobot strength the spy possessed. Over the Ligier’s shoulder, a curve of grey appeared; where he would have thought he’d gather sympathy from Solarflare, there was none in the set of her facial features.

“My Lady.” To Rattrap’s left, Silverbolt genuflected. “On behalf of my comrades, I deeply apologize for this occurrence. I pledge you, this will never happen again!”

“Take him and be gone, Silverbolt,” she replied quietly. Rattrap caught a glimmer of purple in the high lights of the hallway.

“Aye, Lady!” Saluting smartly, Silverbolt cautiously stepped up to the spy’s side. “Sir?”

The grip on Rattrap’s throat eased and he was unceremoniously dropped to the floor. Mirage tucked his rifle behind his back and turned soundlessly, fading into obscurity once more.

The catacombs beneath the Cybertropolis Spaceport had existed for millennia, long before the Great War and stretching into severe antiquity. It was here that the two bulky mechs brought their “guest”. Bound, gagged and stuck behind three energy fields, Megatron was hooked up to a complex system that kept his energy levels at bare minimum.

“Well, isn’t he a sight for dead optics,” the yellow one sneered, tapping his rifle on the edge of the cell. Megatron had enough range of motion to slowly, painfully, turn his head to the side. Lava boiled up behind his optics, pure unadulterated hate. “Yeah, keep staring, ugly. I know you wanna blow my slaggin’ head off, but I’ll tell you this, it ain’t gonna turn out pretty.”

“That’s because you ain’t pretty no more, Sunny,” the red one laughed, leaning up against the wall with careless ease, spinning his rifle around by the stock.

“Slag you,” Sunstreaker snarled. “I don’t know why we have to guard his sorry skidplate.”

“Because Mirage asked us?”

“Slag Mirage!” the melee warrior spat, a wad of lubricant landing on Megatron’s bound tailtip. “He and Flare sit all pretty in their Tower and when shit comes down, who do they call? Us.”

“I don’t think I have to remind you who funded your art studio, do I?” Sunstreaker’s growl reverberated along the corridor, but he remained silent. Sideswipe, however, continued: “Personally, I agree we should slag him right here and now. But we’ll see what they come up with.”

A shadow flitted across the floor, causing the Twins to snap to attention. “You, skidwipe,” Sunny snarled. “Get out of here.”

The inky mech crouched low. “Message for you,” came the reedy reply.

“Ain’t got time for your messages,” the yellow one sneered. “How the hell did you get down here, anyway? Get out!” A vicious burst of laser fire lit up a small section of the thin mech’s form before he skittered out of range. “Call the security captain,” Sunstreaker called over his shoulder, optics straining to see through the shadows. “Someone got through.”

“We can’t follow,” Sideswipe told him.

“No duh, boronhead. I don’t like this.” Not much made Sunstreaker uneasy, but flashes of the past did. Especially if it bore hints of an old foe. And smelled like turkey.